


Once a king or queen of Narnia...

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chronicles of Narnia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunkenness, Gen, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Abuse, New Adult, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roommates, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 10:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30070575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: They grow up together. Twice. That would mess with anyone's head.//A Blake siblings Chronicles of Narnia AU written for Round 1 of the 100 Troped Madness challenge!
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Octavia Blake
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8
Collections: TROPED: Madness 2.0





	Once a king or queen of Narnia...

**Author's Note:**

> Character: Octavia Blake  
> Theme: New Adult  
> Tropes: Roommates  
>  Based on a children's book series - The Chronicles of Narnia

He hears her get home at four in the morning, partially because she’s drunk and walking with none of her usual poise and grace, partially because he’s spent his whole life half-listening for her. She fumbles with the key and then laughs when the door swings open too fast. Harsh, dark laughter that slides down Bellamy’s spine like broken glass.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and grabs the first aid kit as he walks out into the living room.

Octavia sways a little in front of the open door, her hair a tangled wilderness down the shoulders of her denim jacket. She tips her head in greeting, bottom lip split and swollen, the faint glow of the street lights illuminating the dried blood on the edges of her teeth when she smiles at him.

“You didn’t have to wait up, big brother.”

The words are innocent enough, but there’s an edge underneath. Always the hidden sharpness of a taunt Bellamy can’t possibly answer.

But then he holds out his arms and she sags into them instinctively and he can’t be angry at her. He can’t, he can’t.

He guides her to sit on the sofa before he shuts the door and flicks on the lamp. She hunches over her knees a little, wiry fingers kneading the holes in her jeans. All bruised knuckles and cigarette smoke in her hair. A body too small and crumpled under the revealing circle of yellow light.

Bellamy kneels in front of her and wets a cotton ball with antiseptic. Wordlessly tips her chin up until she’s forced to meet his eyes.

“Let me see that.”

She hisses on the inhale as he dabs at her lip, but doesn’t protest. The wail of police sirens passes by a few streets over, the alternating pitches a familiar and desolate lullaby. There’s a few thumps against the ceiling from the upstairs neighbor walking back and forth to the bathroom. The rumble of an early morning garbage truck barrelling through the alley behind the building. The sounds of the city. The sounds of their own personal purgatory.

Octavia watches with shining eyes as Bellamy presses a cloth-wrapped ice pack to her mouth. He cups her hand around it a little forcefully, pressing her fingertips into the threadbare rag.

“Hold this here for a while.”

“If it means anything… this guy had it coming,” she mumbles against the cold pack.

Bellamy sighs and gets to his feet, dusting his hands off. Cleaning his hands of her. “So you always say.”

Octavia’s eyes glint. “It’s always true.”

“At least tell me you took it outside this time.”

The corner of her lip tips up in a careless smirk. “It didn’t start there.”

“O…”

“It’s fine. It was just Anya’s bar. Getting kicked out of Grounders happens to everyone at least once a month.”

Bellamy snaps the first aid kit shut and slides it onto the kitchen counter. “You sleeping out here?”

She wavers, a pale face against a sea of dark hair. “I want my bed.” Her voice is small again. Broken.

She’s too big to carry these days, but the image of her folded in his arms, childish ponytail swinging over his elbow, floats across his mind anyways. He settles for slinging her arm over his neck and supporting her weight down the narrow hallway and into the single bedroom, careful not to bump her hip against the radiator.

They’ve always shared a bedroom, for as long as he can remember. The foster homes tried to separate them every first night. And every first night, Bellamy would wait, pillow hugged to his chest, feet tapping patiently on the floor. Eventually, the frazzled caretaker would poke their head around the door, already showing signs of dark circles under their eyes. Always a resigned and half-despairing sigh as they held his steady gaze.

_ “Bellamy Blake? Your sister needs you.” _

Octavia practically falls into her twin bed, shoved into one corner of the tiny bedroom. She groans and turns on her side, blankets twisted underneath her, lumpy pillow already tucked in the crook of her arm. Bellamy slowly unlaces her boots and lets each one drop to the floor with a soft thump.

“Goodnight, big brother,” she mumbles without opening her eyes.

Bellamy climbs into his own bed and traces invisible patterns across the water-stained ceiling, even after Octavia’s breathing evens out and the edges of the curtain begin to glow gray with the morning light.

It wasn’t always this bad.

It wasn’t always this good either.

Not like the year Octavia turned eighteen and realized there was no going back. Not like the way she found her escape in violence and rage. Not like the days Bellamy spent with his collar pulled high and his gaze trained on his toes so no one could question the perpetual black eyes and the yellow bruises along his throat.

He barely questioned them himself.

They’re on better footing now. Octavia picks bar fights with strangers instead and Bellamy does his penance by cleaning her up afterwards. A way to forget and a way to remember. Both of them dreaming of another world where they grew up differently.

  
  
  


_ There’s a long hallway, wooden floorboards slightly warped underfoot. A trail of giggles like a shimmer of sparks streaks down the hall and past the dark and towering doorways on either side, past the imposing suit of armor that watches the foster children pass back and forth impassively. The clamor of sneakers up flights of stairs and a girlish teasing voice. _

_ “Come and find me…” _

_ There’s a spare room with a slanted roof and dim, narrow windows. A single fly buzzing lazily against the dirty glass. A fine layer of dust that stirs with every slow and measured footstep. _

_ A wardrobe, pushed away like some sort of hidden skeleton under a half-caught sheet. _

_ “Come with me, big brother...” _

  
  
  


Octavia is sitting on the floor when Bellamy wakes up. It must be nearly eleven, the sun too bright and too hot, even through the curtains. Bellamy sits up, blankets pooling around his waist, one arm up to shield his eyes.

“O?”

She’s in the closet. The tiny closet with the folding door that jams before it opens all the way. The empty closet because they haven’t stored anything in a closet for years. She sits cross-legged on the worn carpet, knees touching the doorframe on either side. Facing the back wall resolutely, as if her gaze will bore a hole through the cheap plaster.

Bellamy stares at her for a moment, still shaking off the remnants of a dream. “Octavia?”

She sits still as stone, her long, dark hair draped over one shoulder, head held high. He can just make out her profile from this angle, stern and cold and undeniably noble. A warrior. A queen.

For a split second he swears he can see an invisible breeze catch the edges of her hair, hear the silver ring of her sword sliding free from its scabbard as their horses thunder closer to the edge of battle. Her war cry echoes in his ears and he’s tempted to throw his head back and join her, throat torn raw with the screams of pure adrenaline.

Then he’s back in the bedroom, sweating because they can’t afford to fix the air conditioning, and Octavia is rocking back and forth a little on the floor with the smell of stale beer clinging to her clothes, and neither of them can go back.

He slides off the bed and crawls to sit next to her. They can’t both fit in the doorframe, but he pulls his knees up to his chest and presses his hip against hers until he can feel the way she’s taking shallow, soft breaths. He doesn’t put his arm around her like he might have when they were kids. But he stares at the back of the closet with her and tries to ignore the way his heart is aching, threatening to bleed.

“Why do you think we never found our way back?” Octavia whispers. He doesn’t have to ask where. The other world lives in their heads, in their DNA. The smell of new grass after a hundred years of winter and ancient trees still bursting with life. The taste of red wine and fresh bread eaten in a castle on a hill, while the sea glimmers under the setting sun and toast after toast rings through the royal hall. The golden lion mane that still hovers over them like an invisible mantle, somehow growing heavier with age.

“Because we all have to grow up sometime, O.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading and please make sure to read all the other wonderful Troped Madness entries! And if you really liked this one, I wouldn't mind a vote or two as well!!


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